Besides, one of the most vocal and active of the rebels had been his own nephew Abelard, the aggrieved son of Humphrey, whom he could not in all conscience kill even if the young man was a pompous fool who endlessly insisted he should have inherited from his father. If he could not bloodily chastise a member of his own family, it would be seen as unjust to exceed his punishment with others. Not long from now he would need every fighting man he could muster and he required them strong in his cause, so he would give the rebels another chance and see how they fared on the field of battle, a place where the thought and availability of plunder tended to ease their gripes. It would also confound others and confuse them, which was always something the Guiscard enjoyed; doing the expected brought him no pleasure.
‘If I was to hang every Norman lord who thought of rebellion I would scarce have a lance to my name.’
‘Surely having fought to capture Trani you will not restore it to him?’
‘No,’ Robert replied, as he felt the acid bile rise in his throat. ‘I will not give him the city back, but I will give him a chance of redemption, restore just enough, like Calore and some other fiefs, so he knows he will not starve, and use him in my coming campaign against Capua. I must drive home to Richard how much his efforts have failed, and what better way can there be than for him to see those he set against me fighting him?’
The vomit could not be held in check, and shot as a fount from his throat as he bent to avoid soiling his garments. With one hand against the wall, he used the back of the other to wipe his lips as he sought to make light of his indisposition.
‘But I’ll be damned if I will eat food from his kitchens again, for I think if Peter has few loyal followers, his cooks are amongst them.’ With some effort he pushed himself to his full height, looked at Sichelgaita as if challenging her to allude to what had just occurred, then added, ‘Come, let us see to this business and get it over with.’
The ‘flea’, as Robert had referred to him, was quick to kneel as he entered the council chamber where he and his monks had chosen to conduct their business, his foot chains clanking and the prisoner babbling his regrets, mouthing platitudes regarding his foolishness in falling for the blandishments and wicked promises of others, evil Abelard especially, without looking his liege lord in the eye; those were firmly fixed on the floor.
‘Odd, Peter; I had you named as the man who raised the banner, not my nephew, that others followed where you led, though I would wonder where you found encouragement.’
The head came up and on Peter’s face was an attempt to look innocent, which amused the Guiscard, because it made him look like an idiot. Yet by mentioning Abelard he showed he had a brain; the de Hautevilles never spilt the blood of their own and he was looking for equal justice. It was almost as if he had read Robert’s mind.
‘Not so, My Lord. I was lied to and led astray by Byzantine gold, and a fool — I admit it. I beg your forgiveness and vow to serve you faithfully if that quality for which you are famous is forthcoming.’
‘Ah yes, I am known to be magnanimous in victory, but does not that invite more and more insurrection, Peter? Would not your head rotting on one of the town gates do more to discourage rebellion than that I should let you live?’
Peter, who would no longer be Lord of Trani, threw himself on the floor, arms and legs spread in submission, a stream of beseeching promises bouncing off the flagstones, which had Robert grinning; this before him and being sick had made him feel better, even if he did not believe the lie about Byzantium.
‘You play the Saracen well, Peter, but it is unbecoming in a Norman to so grovel.’
The head came up, for the tone lacked any hint of harshness, and Peter got to his knees as his punishment was given. The face changed to show a flash of anger as he heard he was to be deprived of one of the richest and most important ports of the Adriatic coast, but it was fleeting; to antagonise a man sparing his life with an untoward look was not sensible and he fought, as well, to keep any hint of resentment out of his tone.
‘I look for an opportunity to redeem myself and be put back in charge of my fiefs.’
‘That you shall have, Peter, but know this: restoration to such as Trani must come at a high price. It may require you to spill your own blood in my service.’
‘Yet redemption is possible?’
‘All things are possible, including the notion that you might employ the truth.’ He addressed his chamberlain, ignoring the look of curiosity his words had engendered. ‘Have the armourer strike off his chains.’
Peter was on his knees, stumbling forward to take and kiss Robert’s hand, swearing fealty as he did so. He would not have been pleased to see his liege lord’s face, which showed just how much credence he put in such vows of faithful service. When Peter was gone, Robert was given the scroll, which bore the imperial seal of Byzantium. That he broke and rolled open to read the Latin therein, which told him that Michael Dukas, the imperial usurper, had been deposed and now languished in a dungeon — the import of that was plain.
Helena, his daughter, had been transferred from the palace to a convent, where he was assured she would be cared for, though not in the luxury to which she had become accustomed. There was no suggestion that she might be returned to Apulia, which was as good a way as any of terming her a hostage. The new emperor finished with a scrawl of a signature, which after much examination the Guiscard took to say ‘Nikephoros III Botaneiates’.
The thought that Peter of Trani had been lucky was not paramount but it was there; had Robert read this prior to dealing with him, the fit of temper this scroll induced might have seen his liege lord strangle him with his bare hands. Added to that, all his feelings of partial recovery seemed to evaporate as well, leaving Robert feeling even weaker.
The receipt of that same news from the East caused deep consternation in the Lateran Palace, home to Pope Alexander and the seat of ecclesiastical power in Western Christendom. Not that it roused much ire in the Pope himself, old as he was and much troubled by the summer heat, which exacerbated the stink such weather and a lack of rainfall brought to the great city of Rome. He was content to leave matters to the man he had appointed upon his accession as chancellor to the Apostolic See, indeed the very man who had secured the highest holy office for him; Hildebrand had more than enough energy for them both.
For once the truth matched the depiction, for Archdeacon Hildebrand was truly a remarkable creature and an outstanding administrator. Born in low circumstances — many said he was the son of a peasant, the more generous born of a carpenter — he had risen over twenty years in papal service, by sheer ability and force of personality, to his central position, one in which he held within his hands the entire political and ecclesiastical reins of the most potent office in Christendom. The papacy sat at the epicentre of a web of money and influence: tithes, gifts, pleas for intercession to permit or annul marriages, to confirm or deny titles, never without the gold necessary to oil the wheels. This poured in from all over the continent of Europe to fill the Vatican coffers, while pilgrims of high rank and low came to the Eternal City to seek remission of their sins and were encouraged, if not obliged, to make offerings.
However unbecoming in a supposedly good son of Mother Church, the communication brought from Archdeacon Hildebrand a stream of curses, some of which were downright expletives, for if the message and its revival of a threat from the East had set a cat amongst the pigeons of Robert de Hauteville’s proposed campaign against Capua, the words Hildebrand was reading destroyed at a stroke a carefully crafted and long-brewing policy. The archdeacon had many abiding obsessions, notably internal church reforms, like an end to the crime called simony — the selling of ecclesiastical offices. As well as that he was strong on the enforcement of celibacy upon the priesthood — a married priest was to Hildebrand no priest at all — apart from keeping his own position secure, and the church of which he saw himself as the protector safe from external threats or influence.